


Scenes from a Mall

by SQ (proteinscollide)



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-23
Updated: 2007-05-23
Packaged: 2017-10-24 05:22:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/259456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/proteinscollide/pseuds/SQ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A drycleaners, a hair salon, the park bench that brings them together, and their various friends and enemies; one summer, at the mall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scenes from a Mall

Spencer takes the job at the drycleaners because he’s broke, he’s facing three months of break while his best friend and roommate works (“Slaves!” Ryan grumbles as he wields his employment status as an excuse not to do any chores), he’s technically single after his girlfriend of the last semester disappears back home the day after exams, and Ryan assures him it’ll be cool, they’ll be next door to each other all summer, they’ll totally hang out at work and at home.

After three days of standing next to steam machines in already humid hot weather, being yelled at by asshole businessmen whose shirts aren’t quite ready yet, and not seeing Ryan at all for 48 hours, Spencer’s almost fucking had it; he fantasises about squirting ketchup all over the last asshole’s suit before he goes, pitching his keys at Ryan’s head as hard as he can through the door of his salon, before stomping off to look at shoes at Pete’s store to soothe his injured soul. He’s so ready to do it, just quit.

“Hey there, Spencer Smith.”

Spencer looks up, mid-scowl, and blinks in surprise. There’s a park bench in front of the drycleaners that wasn’t there a minute ago. There’s a boy with neat chocolaty hair and bright eyes, in a blue worn t-shirt and jeans and a great pair of black sneakers that Spencer covets on sight, lounging on one side of the bench, skinny legs sprawled out in front of him. He wasn’t there a minute ago either.

“You’re Spencer, right? Ryan’s friend. How’s it going?”

“Shitty,” Spencer says without thinking. “I mean, er, fine. Who are you?”

“Brendon,” the guys says, and Spencer nods knowingly, because Ryan’s been working at the hairdressers now for three months, and Spencer’s heard all about the other guy: way too much of a morning person, intersecting taste in music (“Britney, Journey, Kanye and then the Best of Disney,” Ryan moans without further explanation after one long day at work), gives a decent hair cut but doesn’t do much in the way of style. The last is the most unforgivable in Ryan’s eyes. One thing Ryan hadn’t mentioned, interestingly, is that Brendon is cute.

“So, Ryan’s sorry he’s been so busy, but he sent me over here to keep you company,” Brendon says simply. “And you know, mall management delivered this bench yesterday, and it’s just going to waste, because who needs to sit outside our shop and watch us cut hair? Good thing you’re right next door, because it’d be hard work dragging this halfway across the mall to do Ryan a favour. Anyway, shitty day, huh? I had this three year old at 9am this morning, and you think I was stabbing him with the scissors rather than just giving him a trim, and his mother glared at me the whole time, not that she was helping any by telling the kid to calm down or anything. And then I had to wolf down my lunch ‘cos this guy insisted on coming at 1 and then he fucking cancelled anyway, so. I have time, you’re bored, here I am.” Brendon smiles, hardly out of breath, but Spencer’s just tired trying to parse the stream of information he’s just heard.

For all his hyperactivity though, Brendon is really easy to talk to, and Spencer’s enjoying himself with an argument about which game was cooler, Mario or Sonic, when Ryan ducks his head around and says, “Hey Spence. Brendon, your 3pm is here.” Brendon hops up, but he gives Spencer a lovely smile before he shrugs and says regretfully, “Ah, back to the grind.”

After he leaves, the rest of the afternoon seems so dead, a complete loss. Spencer resolves to bring a book to read for tomorrow, and wonders if he could get away with listening to his iPod on the sly; the constant hum of the machines he’s now used to, but the monotony makes him sleepy. He leaves the front for just a moment, to tag a set of clothes on the hanger out the back, now clean and pressed for pick up tomorrow; when he comes back there’s a cold pink smoothie waiting for him on the counter. The mall air conditioning is patchy at best, and in the shop, with the steam presses and the giant dryers, it’s like he’s in a sauna or a tropical rainforest. Spencer falls on the smoothie with enthusiasm, drinking it so fast it gives him brain freeze. It’s not until he’s finished that he realises there’s a little note stuck to the bottom, smudged with the condensation. _Berry nice to meet you_ , it says, punctuated with a smiley face. Spencer laughs, and hopes silently and a little guiltily that Brendon has at least one cancellation tomorrow.

*

Despite Brendon’s early misgivings about the bench, he’s secretly a sucker for an audience of any kind, and when round after round of tired old people flock there, one of the few free seats in the complex, he’s incapable of not responding to their attention; he turns his hairdressing into a performance art. Spencer can’t see what kind of theatrics Brendon’s putting on, but he laughs the first time a little old lady and her small grandchild actually clap in response to something inside the hairdressers.

But there’s a megamall in the next suburb with better selection of stores and a cinema, so there’s serious dips in custom during the week, particularly in the afternoons. It’s become a habit for Ryan and Brendon to shift the bench 2 metres to the right on the really quiet days so they can sit out front of Spencer and the counter he’s not to leave on pain of death.

Joe the security guard barely raises an eyebrow the first time he catches them at it, just says hi and goes on his way, another quiet round of the perimeter. He’s not going to tell mall management, just like no one mentions that he goes out the back near the bins to smoke it up with the shelf packers from the supermarket. Pete, when he’s not baiting Patrick in the music shop further down in the mall with his on-the-spot, uninformed critical reviews of Patrick’s favourite artists, or flirting with the donut shop girl in the food court, sprawls across the seat and tries to get Ryan to go out on a date with him for the fiftieth, unsuccessful, time. He’s never in his own shoe store, but it’s alright, because Andy from the comic book store next door keeps an eye out.

“But Pete, you sell leather shoes and bags,” Spencer points out one day, as Pete sits outside the drycleaners, half-sprawled over Brendon. Spencer struggles to keep the sarcasm from his voice, a squirmy feeling in his tummy as he watches Brendon giggle as Pete butts his head against Brendon’s shoulder. “Isn’t Andy a vegan?”

“Yeah,” Pete says distractedly. “So?”

“Um, _animal products_ , Pete. He doesn’t believe in them. Conflict of interest?”

“Oh, he won’t sell any. I think he’s actually got a few pamphlets about animal cruelty under the counter to hand out to people. He made some girl cry the other day when she tried to buy the calfskin boots.”

“That’s _mean_ \- ”

“No, she was crying because she was so ashamed of her choice after talking to Andy. He has that effect on people. It’s cool.”

“But she didn’t buy the shoes. How do you make money, ever?” Spencer presses on, bemused. Pete’s ridiculously generous with all of them, brings them hot coffee and donuts most mornings, and books a hair appointment every two weeks just to get Ryan to spend concerted time with him. He drives a sweet car, wears good clothes, doesn’t lack for anything. But there’s no way that his shop is profitable.

“It’s not about the money,” Pete says. “I like the theatre of it, being here.” And that’s all the explanation he ever gives.

*

Jon walks up and down past their adjoining shops six, seven times a day. At first they just think he must need a lot of cigarette breaks, but then Brendon accosts him (as Brendon is wont to do to anyone or anything that catches his interest, even briefly) and they find out he’s not a smoker, he’s actually one of the assistants from the drugstore next to Patrick’s.

“Yeah, but why are you always out and about?” Brendon asks. “Aren’t the assistants meant to serve, you know, in the shop?”

“I do the banking, I go and borrow from the other pharmacy around the corner, I grab lunch and coffee for the girls, all the odd jobs,” Jon says, then shrugs easily. “I guess it all adds up.”

Jon’s the only boy in his shop. It’s like they never miss him though, because he starts to stop by and chat with Brendon and Ryan whenever he walks past, leaning against the door and shifting to let the odd customer in. And eventually the short chats become whole afternoons, spent on the bench so Spencer can join in and be entertained.

“Don’t you have errands to run and a shop to go back to, Jon?” Pete interrupts them one day, glaring down at Ryan, who’s lying with his head in Jon’s lap and his feet in Brendon’s.

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Ryan retorts, but Jon just laughs and says, “Yeah, I should be getting back.” He pushes up from the seat, and Ryan makes a noise in protest, but he sits up anyway. Pete slides into the spot Jon vacates and pats his thighs welcomingly. Ryan ignores him and says to Jon as he walks away, “Hey, don’t forget, come by tomorrow lunch, okay?”

Jon waves in response, not looking back, then tucks his hands in his pockets and whistles as he heads back down to the drugstore.

“What’s happening tomorrow at lunch?” Pete asks sharply. Ryan checks his fingernails and replies, “Nothing.” He gives Pete a quick guileless smile, and ducks his head down again. Pete makes a huffy noise, then Ryan adds, “Oh, and if you’re going past the sandwich shop tomorrow you can grab me a BLT and Jon likes chicken and mustard.”

And at 12:30 on the dot the next day, Pete’s there at the hairdressers, three subs and three cans of soda in a plastic bag.

“Oh great, you brought me one too!” Brendon says excitedly. “What’s in it? Hang on, you didn’t tell the girl to put jalapenos in mine again, did you?”

“No, the third’s mine,” Pete says quickly. “I’m not leaving the two of them here alone.”

“Pete, the shop’s glass fronted, what do you think they’ll be doing with all the elderly people watching from the bench?” Brendon says. But Pete’s got his stubborn look on, Brendon’s been feeling pretty good about today and doesn’t want to ruin it now, so he sighs and says, “Well, I guess I’ll make myself scarce. Hey Ryan,” he calls out to the back of the shop, behind the partition where they have a small space for a store room and a kitchenette. Ryan peers around, says, “Oh, you’re here,” without expression upon seeing Pete, and looks expectantly at Brendon.

“What would Spencer like for lunch?” Brendon asks, and Ryan furrows his brow and says, “How would I know? Why don’t you go and ask him?”

“No, I want to surprise him,” Brendon says. Ryan rolls his eyes. “Go and ask him,” he repeats meaninfully, “and then ask him what he’d like for lunch, seriously, just do it already.” But Brendon’s still hesitating by the door when Jon walks in, smiling brightly.

“Well, are you ready?” Ryan says, a matching grin on his face. Pete makes a strangled noise at seeing Ryan so cheerful.

Jon takes a big breath, sits down, then says, “OK, do your worst. Best. Uh.”

“You won’t regret this, Jon Walker,” Ryan says, as he starts wetting and combing down Jon’s hair. “The mountain man look has got to go. Don’t get me started on the beard.”

“This is about Jon’s hair?” Pete says confusedly, a beat later. Ryan shakes his head and gives Pete a look, and he shuts up. But Pete stays and watches Ryan style Jon into something more manageable, and even, he’s a little loathe to admit but it’s true, hot.

“All done!” Ryan announces as he brushes the last speck of hair from the plastic covering Jon’s shoulders, standing up and stretching his arms above his head, the bottom of his shirt riding up over his tummy.

“How much do I owe you?” Jon says, checking his reflection in the mirror.

“It’s on the house,” Ryan says, “It’s for the good of society.”

“Hey,” Pete says enviously, “I never get any of my visits free, and I’m your best customer! Why does Jon get special treatment?”

“Because he doesn’t whine.” Ryan washes his hands, and picks up his sub from the table. “Thanks for lunch though, Pete.”

“You’re welcome,” Pete replies sullenly. But he stays around to eat his, and for once Ryan doesn’t shoo him out of the shop, so he considers it a bribe well spent in the end.

*

Brendon and Ryan have exactly one female customer, Mrs Elliott. They’re a men’s hairdresser, always have been, but she wandered in one day, sat down in one of the chairs, and beamed expectantly at Brendon. It turns out she’s half blind, and they don’t have the heart to turn her away. All she wants is a trim and a champagne rinse, and after her third visit Brendon orders her preferred shade to keep in stock just for her. She has a soft spot for him as well, and is constantly trying to set him up with one of her granddaughters. Brendon always takes their numbers – Janice, Emily, Anne, Amy – and then he leaves the slips in the drawer by the cash register. But she hasn’t given up yet, nor seemingly run out of granddaughters.

One afternoon, she turns up just as Brendon’s looking forward to an afternoon of no appointments, the bench already in front of the drycleaners. Spencer’s been caught up in this book for the last week, but after some coaxing by Brendon he started reading it out loud so they could share in it, and now Brendon’s hooked – both on the story, and the luxury of Spencer’s voice and attention. He’s a little annoyed to have this time intruded on, but a job’s a job, and he follows Mrs Elliott into the shop and gets ready his cart of equipment.

Pete’s harassing Ryan to change the red in his hair to blue in the next chair (when he only changed it from purple to red the fortnight before), but when Mrs Elliott starts telling Brendon about her darling Cath, who’s a very pretty girl and still single, Pete gives a loud snort.

“What is so funny, young man?” she demands sharply, and Pete blinks rapidly at the response.

“Uh, sorry ma’am. It’s just that Brendon’s, well, I bet Brendon hasn’t rung any of your lovely granddaughters in all the time you’ve been telling him about them, right?”

“No, he hasn’t,” she says with a sigh, and slides him a slightly injured look. Brendon grimaces and wonders if he could maybe convince Ryan to do something (more) hideous to Pete’s hair for starting the conversation down this track.

“I think Brendon should be honest with you, Mrs E,” Pete continues on blithely. “He’s not interested because he’s gay.”

There’s a terrible silence, and Brendon peeks at Mrs Elliott’s reflection as she furrows her brow. Brendon starts counting to ten in his head, just to stave off the sudden urge to grab the scissors from Ryan’s hand and stab Pete in the back of the head.

“Oh, well. In that case,” Mrs Elliott says finally, “I think…How about a grandnephew? My sister Cecily can’t get over it, but Ralph’s about your age, and he’s a goodlooking boy.” She peers up at him, and Brendon lets out a relieved sigh.

“Uh, thanks, um, maybe - ” Brendon starts to say. He hasn’t had a date in three months, and if he could make Mrs Elliott happy for once by taking her up on her matchmaking offers, he’s willing to consider the unknown. But Ryan suddenly breaks in and says, kindly but firmly, “He’s taken, Mrs Elliott.”

Pete swivels suddenly in his chair and gives Ryan a wild look, and Mrs Elliott peers at Ryan myopically in the mirror, as if seeing him for the first time. Brendon says weakly, “I am?”

“Not by me,” Ryan hurries to say. But he frowns at Brendon, mouths _make a move_ and tips his head imperceptibly to the left, at the wall separating their shop from the one next door, and Brendon gets it suddenly. He blushes; and when Mrs Elliott catches his eye in the reflection she smiles and says, “Lucky boy, then.” And Brendon hopes that she’s right, that he is, will be.

*

Spencer only gets a half hour to himself at work each day, a lunch break. Sometimes, Ryan gets away from the hairdressers and meets him for lunch in the food court, but then they run the risk of being accosted by Pete with a long-suffering Patrick in tow. Sometimes he’ll duck next door, pull up chair and watch Brendon charm a customer with a cheap efficient haircut, and a performance, either the retelling of a joke or a ridiculous accent or a song belted out with pure enthusiasm and a steady voice. The whole Brendon experience; it takes a certain type of customer to appreciate it, but those ones come back time after time. But on the occasional day, he just wants peace and quite; he pulls the shutters down, slaps a _back in 5_ sign on the front, sits in the very back of the store, plugs in his iPod and just tunes out the world for a while.

So when he hears the shutter slide up during his break, he doesn’t even bother to look up, just yells out in annoyance, “We’re closed, read the sign!” But after the shutters slide close again, footsteps come closer through the racks of plastic covered suits, and Spencer feels his heart seize up in panic.

It’s only Brendon though, but when Spencer rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to bitch him out, Brendon puts his fingers to his lips. He comes up to Spencer and cups one hand around the side of Spencer’s neck and kisses Spencer softly. Spencer kisses back, and more.

It’s the best damn lunch break he’s ever had.

*

Pete has a regular lunch date with Patrick. He’s not sure how it started, or why Patrick puts up with him, but at 1pm on Wednesdays, he swings by the music store and there’s food set out for the two of them on the counter, and some band that Patrick wants to indoctrinate Pete with on the sound system. And every Wednesday afternoon, Pete wonders why he doesn’t spend more time down this end of the mall. He’s starting to notice though that they whenever he starts talking about Ryan (which he always ends up doing), Patrick listens with an increasingly resigned look on his face. Pete barrels on anyway, because Patrick always gives wise advice, even if he swears he doesn’t care about that kind of stuff.

“So last week, he gave Jon a free trim and a shave, which. I don’t know, is proof positive that Ryan’s interested in him, right?”

Patrick stops looking resigned, and laughs in Pete’s face at this complaint.

“What? It’s totally possible. He’s kind of hot, if you like the all-American boy type, and Ryan’s - ”

Patrick’s almost choking on his burger now. “Pete, don’t you know? Jon’s engaged, he’s like, three months from getting married.”

“Does Ryan know that?” Pete asks darkly, and Patrick sighs and say, “Of course he does, moron, everyone does. She’s the chemist in the drugstore, why else do you think he doesn’t get any strife about being out of the shop so much?”

“So if Ryan’s not interested in Jon, then why does he - ”

Patrick rolls his eyes so hard. “Pete. You pay him $50 every two weeks for the pleasure of his time and hair expertise, you bring him free lunch whenever he asks, you go out of your way to spend time with him. And you always get more extravagant when you think there’s competition.”

Pete bites his lip. “That’s a little mercenary, even for Ryan,” he says doubtfully.

“Uh-huh,” Patrick says. “But you started it, and maybe he just got accustomed to the attention. There’s a charm to you, hard as it is to understand.” He flushes a little as he says this, but Pete has this faraway look in his eyes, and doesn’t seem to notice.

“I…I’ve just got something to do, I realise,” Pete says abruptly, standing up and leaving his lunch unfinished. “I’ll – don’t – thanks.” He sprints out of the shop, and Patrick pushes the wrappers around on the counter and says to no one, “Yep. My pleasure.”

Pete walks into the hairdressers early the next morning, singing jauntily to the music that Brendon’s put on to get them pumped for the day. Ryan’s slumped in the corner, muttering to himself, but when he sees Pete he sits up, pulls his trolley towards him and starts laying out his equipment.

“The usual, Pete?”

“Actually,” Pete says slowly, almost with relish, “I booked my appointment with Brendon. Sorry.” Ryan starts, and raises an eyebrow at Brendon. Brendon shrugs, glances quickly over at their appointment book, and says questioningly, “Mr P. Pan? Okay, that’s new levels of lame for you, Pete. Ryan, how did you not get suspicious?”

“We were busy – no, wait, _I_ was busy because I was here by myself, trying to cut hair, take appointments and tidy up while _someone_ was blowing their boyfriend next door, hmm?”

Brendon blushes. “Fine. Uh, Pete, what do you want, a trim or a colour?”

“Oh, I’ll leave it to you. Be creative…I just thought I’d try something new. Not be stuck in the same old rut.”

“Creative, right,” Ryan says, and that’s definitely a malicious tone. Brendon squawks, and says defensively, “Hey, I went to hairdressing school, I can do more than a quick back and sides, fuck you.”

“Well, why don’t you?” Ryan shoots back, and now they’re glaring at each other across the room.

Pete smiles to himself, even though he knows it’s kind of evil of him. He settles back in his chair, studiously ignores Ryan, and, to hopefully infuriate the other boy more, starts flirting with Brendon, who naturally built to be overly friendly and can’t help but respond. But Brendon goes deathly still when he hears Ryan say loudly and much too sweetly on the phone, “Oh, hey Spence. Yeah, yeah, Brendon’s here. But he’s too busy _flirting_ with Pete to come to the phone.”

“No I’m not!” Brendon yells in a panicked tone. “Don’t believe him Spencer he’s - ”

“Oops,” Ryan says, “He hung up. He sounded kind of mad.” He gives Brendon and Pete a vicious smile, and goes back to his paperwork, humming something under his breath.

Pete starts to fear for his hair, and also his neck, as Brendon’s movements get rougher and more violent, but he finishes up alright, if a little too quickly and much too quietly. As soon as Brendon’s done, he dusts Pete off perfunctorily and shoves him at Ryan with an awkward, “Um, pay up. Or something.” And dashes off next door.

Ryan stands there stonily with his arms crossed in front of him, and doesn’t say anything.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Pete says, because he is, for part of it anyway. He didn’t mean to drag Brendon into it so much.

“What the fuck, Pete.”

“It’s just…look, did you let me make a fool out of myself because it keeps you in food and rent? ‘cos that shit’s not on. I thought we were friends.”

Ryan has the decency to look a little embarrassed. “I tried to discourage you from the start, but you wouldn’t get the hint, and then it was…flattering. Mostly. And, yeah, I took advantage of it a bit after a while, so. I guess. I’m sorry too. I think we’re friends though, I do.”

Pete stares at him a little longer, then shakes his head, as if clearing it of some long ago dream, and says slowly, “That’s okay. We’re cool.” He pauses, then adds, “Well, I guess I’ll see you around.” He must sound too distant though, because a look of consternation crosses Ryan’s face, before he answers, a little sadly, “Yeah, sure.”

Pete makes an effort to smile. “Oh, you won’t be rid of me completely, you’re not that lucky. I’ll be back – who’s going to fix my hair for me?” He points to his new cut, which, admittedly, is perfectly serviceable and neat, but it’s not the same and Pete knows Ryan knows it.

As Pete leaves, he catches the tail end of an argument going on outside the drycleaners, and he slows down, a little worried. But as he turns to approach them, to apologise, Brendon grabs Spencer by the collar of his shirt and pulls him in for a passionate kiss, and the tension visibly melts from Spencer’s frame. They look around briefly, catch Pete’s eye with an cheeky grin, then Spencer pushes Brendon further into the drycleaners, slaps the now familiar _back in 5_ sign on the door hurriedly, and pulls down the shutters with a bang. Pete grins.

Down at the music store, Pete catches Patrick in a rare, frustrated moment; cap in his hand, pulling his fingers through his soft hair.

“Some asshole’s moved one album from each artist category into a space across the room. I just found a Dolly Parton album in heavy metal under Pantera. It’s going to take me ages to find every freaking change and move it back. What kind of moron does that?”

“Uh, I don’t know,” Pete lies. “But do you want some help? I’ve got time, I have eyes.” He slides a appreciative look at Patrick, and Patrick blushes and says, “Oh, _oh_. Um, sure. I could do with the help.”

“And my charming attention and company,” Pete prompts, and Patrick stares down at his hands and smiles widely.

END


End file.
